1737	MATTHEW GREEN from The Spleen
	To cure the mind’s wrong biass, spleen,
	Some recommend the bowling-green;
	Some, hilly walks; all, exercise;
	Fling but a stone, the giant dies;
	Laugh and be well; monkeys have been
	Extreme good doctors for the spleen;
	And kitten, if the humour hit,
	Has harlequin’d away the fit.
	(… )
	Sometimes I dress, with women sit,
	And chat away the gloomy fit,
	Quit the stiff garb of serious sense,
	And wear a gay impertinence,
	Nor think, nor speak with any pains,
	But lay on fancy’s neck the reins;
	Talk of unusual swell of waist
	In maid of honour loosely lac’d,
	And beauty borr’wing Spanish red,
	And loving pair with sep’rate bed,
	And jewels pawn’d for loss of game,
	And then redeem’d by loss of fame,
	Of Kitty (aunt left in the lurch
	By grave pretence to go to church)
	Perceiv’d in hack with lover fine,
	Like Will and Mary on the coin:
	And thus in modish manner we
	In aid of sugar sweeten tea.
	Permit, ye fair, your idol form,
	Which e’en the coldest heart can warm,
	May with its beauties grace my line,
	While I bow down before it’s shrine,
	And your throng’d altars with my lays
	Perfume, and get by giving praise.
	With speech so sweet, so sweet a mien
	You excommunicate the spleen.
1738	SAMUEL JOHNSON from London: A Poem in Imitation of the Third Satire of Juvenal
	Tho’ grief and fondness in my breast rebel,
	When injur’d THALES bids the town farewell,
	Yet still my calmer thoughts his choice commend,
	I praise the hermit, but regret the friend,
	Resolved at length, from vice and LONDON far,
	To breathe in distant fields a purer air,
	And, fix’d on Cambria’s solitary shore,
	Give to St David one true Briton more.
	For who would leave, unbrib’d, Hibernia’s land,
	Or change the rocks of Scotland for the Strand?
	There none are swept by sudden fate away,
	But all whom hunger spares, with age decay:
	Here malice, rapine, accident, conspire,
	And now a rabble rages, now a fire;
	Their ambush here relentless ruffians lay,
	And here the fell attorney prowls for prey;
	Here falling houses thunder on your head,
	And here a female atheist talks you dead.
	(… )
	By numbers here from shame or censure free,
	All crimes are safe, but hated poverty.
	This, only this, the rigid law pursues,
	This, only this, provokes the snarling muse.
	The sober trader at a tatter’d cloak,
	Wakes from his dream, and labours for a joke;
	With brisker air the silken courtiers gaze,
	And turn the varied taunt a thousand ways.
	Of all the griefs that harrass the distress’d,
	Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest;
	Fate never wounds more deep the gen’rous heart,
	Than when a blockhead’s insult points the dart.
	Has heaven reserv’d, in pity to the poor,
	No pathless waste, or undiscover’d shore;
	No secret island in the boundless main?
	No peaceful desart yet unclaim’d by SPAIN?
	Quick let us rise, the happy seats explore,
	And bear oppression’s insolence no more.
	This mournful truth is ev’ry where confess’d,
	SLOW RISES WORTH, BY POVERTY DEPRESS’D:
	But here more slow, where all are slaves to gold,
	Where looks are merchandise, and smiles are sold;
	Where won by bribes, by flatteries implor’d,
	The groom retails the favours of his lord.
	ALEXANDER POPE from Epilogue to the Satires
	from Dialogue I
	Virtue may chuse the high or low Degree,
	’Tis just alike to Virtue, and to me;
	Dwell in a Monk, or light upon a King,
	She’s still the same, belov’d, contented thing.
	Vice is undone, if she forgets her Birth,
	And stoops from Angels to the Dregs of Earth:
	But ’tis the Fall degrades her to a Whore;
	Let Greatness own her, and she’s mean no more:
	Her Birth, her Beauty, Crowds and Courts confess,
	Chaste Matrons praise her, and grave Bishops bless:
	In golden Chains the willing World she draws,
	And hers the Gospel is, and hers the Laws:
	Mounts the Tribunal, lifts her scarlet head,
	And sees pale Virtue carted in her stead!
	Lo! at the Wheels of her Triumphal Car,
	Old England’s Genius, rough with many a Scar,
	Dragg’d in the Dust! his Arms hang idly round,
	His Flag inverted trails along the ground!
	Our Youth, all liv’ry’d o’er with foreign Gold,
	Before her dance; behind her crawl the Old!
	See thronging Millions to the Pagod run,
	And offer Country, Parent, Wife, or Son!
	Hear her black Trumpet thro’ the Land proclaim,
	That ‘Not to be corrupted is the Shame.’
	In Soldier, Churchman, Patriot, Man in Pow’r,
	’Tis Av’rice all, Ambition is no more!
	See, all our Nobles begging to be Slaves!
	See, all our Fools aspiring to be Knaves!
	The Wit of Cheats, the Courage of a Whore,
	Are what ten thousand envy and adore.
	All, all look up, with reverential Awe,
	On Crimes that scape, or triumph o’er the Law:
	While Truth, Worth, Wisdom, daily they decry –
	‘Nothing is Sacred now but Villany.’
	ALEXANDER POPE Epitaph for One Who Would Not Be Buried in Westminster Abbey.
	Heroes, and Kings! your distance keep:
	In peace let one poor Poet sleep,
	Who never flatter’d Folks like you:
	Let Horace blush, and Virgil too.
1739	JONATHAN SWIFT from Verses on the Death of Dr. Swift
	The Time is not remote, when I
	Must by the Course of Nature dye:
	When I foresee my special Friends,
	Will try to find their private Ends:
	Tho’ it is hardly understood,
	Which way my Death can do them good;
	Yet, thus methinks, I hear ’em speak;
	See, how the Dean begins to break:
	Poor Gentleman, he droops apace,
	You plainly find it in his Face:
	That old Vertigo in his Head,
	Will never leave him, till he’s dead:
	Besides, his Memory decays,
	He recollects not what he says;
	He cannot call his Friends to Mind;
	Forgets the Place where last he din’d:
	Plyes you with Stories o’er and o’er,
	He told them fifty Times before.
	How does he fancy we can sit,
	To hear his out-of-fashion’d Wit?
	But he takes up with younger Fokes,
	Who for his Wine will bear his Jokes:
	Faith, he must make his Stories shorter,
	Or change his Comrades once a Quarter:
	In half the Time, he talks them round;
	There must another Sett be found.
	For Poetry, he’s past his Prime,
	He takes an Hour to find a Rhime:
	His Fire is out, his Wit decay’d,
	His Fancy sunk, his Muse a Jade.
	I’d have him throw away his Pen;
	But there’s no talking to some Men.
	And, then their Tenderness appears,
	By adding largely to my Years:
	‘He’s older than he would be reckon’d,
	‘And well remembers Charles the Second.
	‘He hardly drinks a Pint of Wine;
	‘And that, I doubt, is no good Sign.
	‘His Stomach too begins to fail:
	‘Last Year we thought him strong and hale;
	‘But now, he’s quite another Thing;
	‘I wish he may hold out till Spring.’
	Then hug themselves, and reason thus;
	‘It is not yet so bad with us.’
	In such a Case they talk in Tropes,
	And, by their Fears express their Hopes:
	Some great Misfortune to portend,
	No Enemy can match a Friend;
	With all the Kindness they profess,
	The Merit of a lucky Guess,
	(When daily Howd’y’s come of Course,
	And Servants answer; Worse and Worse)
	Wou’d please ’em better than to tell,
	That, GOD be prais’d, the Dean is well.
	Then he who prophecy’d the best,
	Approves his Foresight to the rest:
	‘You know, I always fear’d the worst,
	‘And often told you so at first:’
	He’d rather chuse that I should dye,
	Than his Prediction prove a Lye.
	Not one foretels I shall recover;
	But, all agree, to give me over.
	Yet shou’d some Neighbour feel a Pain,
	Just in the Parts, where I complain;
	How many a Message would he send?
	What hearty Prayers that I should mend?
	Enquire what Regimen I kept;
	What gave me Ease, and how I slept?
	And more lament, when I was dead,
	Than all the Sniv’llers round my Bed.
	My good Companions, never fear,
	For though you may mistake a Year;
	Though your Prognosticks run too fast,
	They must be verify’d at last.
	‘Behold the fatal Day arrive!
	‘How is the Dean? He’s just alive.
	‘Now the departing Prayer is read:
	‘He hardly breathes. The Dean is dead.
	‘Before the Passing-Bell begun,
	‘The News thro’ half the Town has run.
	‘O, may we all for Death prepare!
	‘What has he left? And who’s his Heir?
	‘I know no more than what the News is,
	‘’Tis all bequeath’d to publick Uses.
	‘To publick Use! A perfect Whim!
	‘What had the Publick done for him!
	‘Meer Envy, Avarice, and Pride!
	‘He gave it all: – But first he dy’d.
	‘And had the Dean, in all the Nation,
	‘No worthy Friend, no poor Relation?
	‘So ready to do Strangers good,
	‘Forgetting his own Flesh and Blood?’
	Now Grub-Street Wits are all employ’d;
	With Elegies, the Town is cloy’d:
	Some Paragraph in ev’ry Paper,
	To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier.
	The Doctors tender of their Fame,
	Wisely on me lay all the Blame:
	‘We must confess his Case was nice;
	‘But he would never take Advice:
	‘Had he been rul’d, for ought appears,
	‘He might have liv’d these Twenty Years:
	‘For when we open’d him we found,
	‘That all his vital Parts were sound.’
	From Dublin soon to London spread,
	’Tis told at Court, the Dean is dead.
	Kind Lady Suffolk in the Spleen,
	Runs laughing up to tell the Queen.
	The Queen, so Gracious, Mild, and Good,
	Cries, ‘Is he gone? ’Tis time he shou’d.
	‘He’s dead you say; why let him rot;
	‘I’m glad the Medals were forgot.
	‘I promis’d them, I own; but when?
	‘I only was the Princess then;
	‘But now as Consort of the King,
	‘You know ’tis quite a different Thing.’
	(… )
	Here shift the Scene, to represent
	How those I love, my Death lament.
	Poor POPE will grieve a Month; and GAY
	A Week; and ARBUTHNOTT a Day.
	ST JOHN himself will scarce forbear,
	To bite his Pen, and drop a Tear.
	The rest will give a Shrug and cry
	I’m sorry; but we all must dye.
	Indifference clad in Wisdom’s Guise,
	All Fortitude of Mind supplies:
	For how can stony Bowels melt,
	In those who never Pity felt;
	When We are lash’d, They kiss the Rod;
	Resigning to the Will of God.
	The Fools, my Juniors by a Year,
	Are tortur’d with Suspence and Fear.
	Who wisely thought my Age a Screen,
	When Death approach’d, to stand between:
	The Screen remov’d, their Hearts are trembling,
	They mourn for me without dissembling.
	My female Friends, whose tender Hearts
	Have better learn’d to act their Parts.
	Receive the News in doleful Dumps,
	‘The Dean is dead, (and what is Trumps?)
	‘Then Lord have Mercy on his Soul.
	‘(Ladies I’ll venture for the Vole.)
	‘Six Deans they say must bear the Pall.
	‘(I wish I knew what King to call.)
	‘Madam, your Husband will attend
	‘The Funeral of so good a Friend.
	‘No Madam, ’tis a shocking Sight,
	‘And he’s engag’d To-morrow Night!
	‘My Lady Club wou’d take it ill,
	‘If he shou’d fail her at Quadrill.
	‘He lov’d the Dean. (I lead a Heart.)
	‘But dearest Friends, they say, must part.
	‘His Time was come, he ran his Race;
	‘We hope he’s in a better Place.’
1740	ALEXANDER POPE On Queen Caroline’s Death-bed
	Here lies wrapt up in forty thousand towels
	The only proof that C* * * had bowels.
	SAMUEL JOHNSON An Epitaph on Claudy Phillips, a Musician
	Phillips! whose touch harmonious could remove
	The pangs of guilty pow’r, and hapless love,
	Rest here distrest by poverty no more,
	Find here that calm thou gav’st so oft before;
	Sleep undisturb’d within this peaceful shrine,
	Till angels wake thee with a note like thine.
	CHARLES WESLEY Morning Hymn
	Christ, whose Glory fills the Skies,
	CHRIST, the true, the only Light,
	Sun of Righteousness, arise,
	Triumph o’er the Shades of Night:
	Day-spring from on High, be near:
	Day-star, in my Heart appear.
	Dark and Chearless is the Morn
	Unaccompanied by Thee,
	Joyless is the Day’s Return,
	Till thy Mercy’s Beams I see;
	Till they Inward Light impart,
	Glad my Eyes, and warm my Heart.
	Visit then this Soul of mine,
	Pierce the Gloom of Sin, and Grief,
	Fill me, Radiancy Divine,
	Scatter all my Unbelief,
	More and more Thyself display
	Shining to the Perfect Day.
1742	ALEXANDER POPE from The Dunciad
	[The Tribe of Fanciers]
	Then thick as Locusts black’ning all the ground,
	A tribe, with weeds and shells fantastic crown’d,
	Each with some wond’rous gift approach’d the Pow’r,
	A Nest, a Toad, a Fungus, or a Flow’r.
	But far the foremost, two, with earnest zeal,
	And aspect ardent to the Throne appeal.
	The first thus open’d: ‘Hear thy suppliant’s call,
	Great Queen, and common Mother of us all!
	Fair from its humble bed I rear’d this Flow’r,
	Suckled, and chear’d, with air, and sun, and show’r,
	Soft on the paper ruff its leaves I spread,
	Bright with the gilded button tipt its head,
	Then thron’d in glass, and nam’d it CAROLINE:
	Each Maid cry’d, charming! and each Youth, divine!
	Did Nature’s pencil ever blend such rays,
	Such vary’d light in one promiscuous blaze?
	Now prostrate! dead! behold that Caroline:
	No Maid cries, charming! and no Youth, divine!
	And lo the wretch! whose vile, whose insect lust
	Lay’d this gay daughter of the Spring in dust.
	Oh punish him, or to th’ Elysian shades
	Dismiss my soul, where no Carnation fades.’
	He ceas’d, and wept. With innocence of mien,
	Th’ Accus’d stood forth, and thus address’d the Queen.
	‘Of all th’ enamel’d race, whose silv’ry wing
	Waves to the tepid Zephyrs of the spring,
	Or swims along the fluid atmosphere,
	Once brightest shin’d this child of Heat and Air.
	I saw, and started from its vernal bow’r
	The rising game, and chac’d from flow’r to flow’r.
	It fled, I follow’d; now in hope, now pain;
	It stopt, I stopt; it mov’d, I mov’d again.
	At last it fix’d, ’twas on what plant it pleas’d,
	And where it fix’d, the beauteous bird I seiz’d:
	Rose or Carnation was below my care;
	I meddle, Goddess! only in my sphere.
	I tell the naked fact without disguise,
	And, to excuse it, need but shew the prize;
	Whose spoils this paper offers to your eye,
	Fair ev’n in death! this peerless Butterfly.’
	‘My sons! (she answer’d) both have done your parts:
	Live happy both, and long promote our arts.
	But hear a Mother, when she recommends
	To your fraternal care, our sleeping friends.
	The common Soul, of Heav’n’s more frugal make,
	Serves but to keep fools pert, and knaves awake:
	A drowzy Watchman, that just gives a knock,
	And breaks our rest, to tell us what’s a clock.
	Yet by some object ev’ry brain is stirr’d;
	The dull may waken to a Humming-bird;
	The most recluse, discreetly open’d, find
	Congenial matter in the Cockle-kind;
	The mind, in Metaphysics at a loss,
	May wander in a wilderness of Moss;
	The head that turns at super-lunar things,
	Poiz’d with a tail, may steer on Wilkins’ wings.
	‘O! would the Sons of Men once think their Eyes
	And Reason giv’n them but to study Flies!
	See Nature in some partial narrow shape,
	And let the Author of the Whole escape:
	Learn but to trifle; or, who most observe,
	To wonder at their Maker, not to serve.’
	(… )
	[The Triumph of Dullness]
	Then blessing all, ‘Go Children of my care!
	To Practice now from Theory repair.
	All my commands are easy, short, and full:
	My Sons! be proud, be selfish, and be dull.
	Guard my Prerogative, assert my Throne:
	This Nod confirms each Privilege your own.
	The Cap and Switch be sacred to his Grace;
	With Staff and Pumps the Marquis lead the Race;
	From Stage to Stage the licens’d Earl may run,
	Pair’d with his Fellow-Charioteer the Sun;
	The learned Baron Butterflies design,
	Or draw to silk Arachne’s subtile line;
	The Judge to dance his brother Sergeant call;
	The Senator at Cricket urge the Ball;
	The Bishop stow (Pontific Luxury!)
	An hundred Souls of Turkeys in a pye;
	The sturdy Squire to Gallic masters stoop,
	And drown his Lands and Manors in a Soupe.
	Others import yet nobler arts from France,
	Teach Kings to fiddle, and make Senates dance.
	Perhaps more high some daring son may soar,
	Proud to my list to add one Monarch more;
	And nobly conscious, Princes are but things
	Born for First Ministers, as Slaves for Kings,
	Tyrant supreme! shall three Estates command,
	And MAKE ONE MIGHTY DUNCIAD OF THE LAND!’
	More she had spoke, but yawn’d – All Nature nods:
	What Mortal can resist the Yawn of Gods?
	Churches and Chapels instantly it reach’d;
	(St. James’s first, for leaden Gilbert preach’d)
	Then catch’d the Schools; the Hall scarce kept awake;
	The Convocation gap’d, but could not speak:
	Lost was the Nation’s Sense, nor could be found,
	While the long solemn Unison went round:
	Wide, and more wide, it spread o’er all the realm;
	Ev’n Palinurus nodded at the Helm:
	The Vapour mild o’er each Committee crept;
	Unfinish’d Treaties in each Office slept;
	And Chiefless Armies doz’d out the Campaign;
	And Navies yawn’d for Orders on the Main.
	O Muse! relate (for you can tell alone,
	Wits have short Memories, and Dunces none)
	Relate, who first, who last resign’d to rest;
	Whose Heads she partly, whose completely blest;
	What Charms could Faction, what Ambition lull,
	The Venal quiet, and intrance the Dull;
	‘Till drown’d was Sense, and Shame, and Right, and Wrong –
	O sing, and hush the Nations with thy Song!
	*     *     *     *     *     *
	In vain, in vain, – the all-composing Hour
	Resistless falls: The Muse obeys the Pow’r.
	She comes! she comes! the sable Throne behold
	Of Night Primæval, and of Chaos old!
	Before her, Fancy’s gilded clouds decay,
	And all its varying Rain-bows die away.
	Wit shoots in vain its momentary fires,
	The meteor drops, and in a flash expires.
	As one by one, at dread Medea’s strain,
	The sick’ning stars fade off th’ethereal plain;
	As Argus’ eyes by Hermes’ wand opprest,
	Clos’d one by one to everlasting rest;
	Thus at her felt approach, and secret might,
	Art after Art goes out, and all is Night.
	See skulking Truth to her old Cavern fled,
	Mountains of Casuistry heap’d o’er her head!
	Philosophy, that lean’d on Heav’n before,
	Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more.
	Physic of Metaphysic begs defence,
	And Metaphysic calls for aid on Sense!
	See Mystery to Mathematics fly!
	In vain! they gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die.
	Religion blushing veils her sacred fires,
	And unawares Morality expires.
	Nor public Flame, nor private, dares to shine;
	Nor human Spark is left, nor Glimpse divine!
	Lo! thy dread Empire, CHAOS! is restor’d;
	Light dies before thy uncreating word:
	Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall;
	And Universal Darkness buries All.
	(1728–42)
1744	ANONYMOUS On the Death of Mr. Pope
	Seal up the Book, all Vision’s at an end,
	For who durst now to Poetry pretend?
	Since Pope is dead, it must be sure confessed
	The Muse’s sacred Inspiration’s ceased;
	And we may only what is writ rehearse:
	His Works are the Apocalypse of Verse.
	from Tommy Thumb’s Pretty Song Book
	ANONYMOUS Cock Robbin
	Who did kill Cock Robbin?
	I, said the Sparrow,
	With my bow and Arrow,
	And I did kill Cock Robbin.
	Who did see him die?
	I, said the Fly,
	With my little Eye,
	And I did see him die.
	And who did catch his blood?
	I, said the Fish,
	With my little Dish,
	And I did catch his blood.
	And who did make his shroud?
	I, said the Beetle,
	With my little Needle,
	And I did make his shroud.
	Who’ll dig his grave?
	I, said the Owl,
	With my pick and shovel,
	I’ll dig his grave.
	Who’ll be the parson?
	I, said the Rook,
	With my little book,
	I’ll be the parson.
	Who’ll be the clerk?
	I, said the Lark,
	If it’s not in the dark,
	I’ll be the clerk.
	Who’ll carry the link?
	I, said the Linnet,
	I’ll fetch it in a minute,
	I’ll carry the link.
	Who’ll be chief mourner?
	I, said the Dove,
	I mourn for my love,
	I’ll be chief mourner.
	Who’ll carry the coffin?
	I, said the Kite,
	If it’s not through the night,
	I’ll carry the coffin.
	Who’ll bear the pall?
	We, said the Wren,
	Both the cock and the hen,
	We’ll bear the pall.
	Who’ll sing a psalm?
	I, said the Thrush,
	As she sat on a bush,
	I’ll sing a psalm.
	Who’ll toll the bell?
	I, said the Bull,
	Because I can pull,
	I’ll toll the bell.
	All the birds of the air
	Fell a-sighing and a-sobbing,
	When they heard the bell toll
	For poor Cock Robbin.
	ANONYMOUS London Bridge
	London Bridge is broken down,
	Dance o’er my lady lee,
	London Bridge is broken down,
	With a gay lady.
	How shall we build it up again?
	Dance o’er my lady lee,
	How shall we build it up again?
	With a gay lady.
	Build it up with silver and gold,
	Dance o’er my lady lee,
	Build it up with silver and gold,
	With a gay lady.
	Silver and gold will be stole away,
	Dance o’er my lady lee,
	Silver and gold will be stole away,
	With a gay lady.
	Build it up with iron and steel,
	Dance o’er my lady lee,
	Build it up with iron and steel,
	With a gay lady.
	Iron and steel will bend and bow,
	Dance o’er my lady lee,
	Iron and steel will bend and bow,
	With a gay lady.
	Build it up with wood and clay,
	Dance o’er my lady lee,
	Build it up with wood and clay,
	With a gay lady.
	Wood and clay will wash away,
	Dance o’er my lady lee,
	Wood and clay will wash away,
	With a gay lady.
	Build it up with stone so strong,
	Dance o’er my lady lee,
	Huzza! ’twill last for ages long,
	With a gay lady.
1745	CHARLES WESLEY
	Let Earth and Heaven combine,
	Angels and Men agree
	To praise in Songs divine
	Th’Incarnate Deity,
	Our GOD contracted to a Span,
	Incomprehensibly made Man.
	He laid his Glory by,
	He wrap’d Him in our Clay,
	Unmark’d by Human Eye
	The latent Godhead lay;
	Infant of Days He here became,
	And bore the lov’d IMMANUEL’S Name.
	See in that Infant’s Face
	The Depths of Deity,
	And labour while ye gaze
	To sound the Mystery:
	In vain; ye Angels gaze no more,
	But fall, and silently adore.
	Unsearchable the Love
	That hath the Saviour brought,
	The Grace is far above
	Or Men or Angels Thought;
	Suffice for Us, that GOD, we know,
	Our GOD is manifest below.
	He deigns in Flesh t’appear,
	Widest Extremes to join,
	To bring our Vileness near,
	And make us All divine;
	And we the Life of GOD shall know,
	For GOD is manifest below.
	Made perfect first in Love,
	And sanctified by Grace,
	We shall from Earth remove,
	And see his glorious Face;
	His Love shall then be fully shew’d,
	And Man shall be lost in GOD.